The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer
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the hill to the fields, talking on his cell phone the entire time. When they arrived, his uncle was already assigning the extra laborers to their designated picking areas under the leadership of one of the full-time employees, but he stopped long enough to welcome Arlene with a big smile. “Watch and learn, then you go home the expert,” he shouted cheerfully.
Hardly that, she thought. But hopefully not a complete nincompoop, either.
“Although some cultivators bring in machinery to get the job done quickly, we handpick our grapes,” Domenico began, wasting no time launching into his first lecture.
“So I see. Why is that?”
“Because mechanical harvesters shake the fruit from the vines, often damaging it. This can result in oxidization and microbial activity which, in turn, causes disease. Not only that, it’s virtually impossible to prevent other material also being collected, especially leaves.”
Oxidization? Microbial? Whatever happened to plain, uncomplicated English?
Covering her dismay at already finding herself at a loss, she said, “But isn’t handpicking labor intensive, and therefore more expensive?”
He cast her a lofty glance. “Vigna Silvaggio d’Avalos prides itself on the superiority of its wines. Cost is not a factor.”
“Oh, I see!” she replied weakly, and properly chastised, wondered how she’d ever manage to redeem herself for such an unforgivable oversight.
Unfortunately her woes increased as the morning progressed. Although recognizing that she’d had the extreme good fortune to find herself involved in a world-class operation, what struck her most forcibly as the hours dragged by was that her back ached and the sun was enough to roast a person alive.
Under Domenico’s tutelage, she picked clusters of grapes using a pair of shears shaped like pointed scissors. She learned to recognize unripe or diseased fruit, and to reject it. Because bruised grapes spoil easily, she handled the crop carefully, laying the collected clusters in one of many small buckets placed at intervals along each row.
Not that she’d have understood them anyway, but none of the migrant workers had much to say for themselves. They bent to their task with dogged persistence, seldom sparing her so much as a glance. Once assured that she wasn’t about to lay devastation to his precious crop, Domenico essentially ignored her, too, and Bruno was too far away to offer her a word of encouragement. Over the course of the morning, however, four women found occasion to stop by separately, each offering a friendly greeting and, at the same time, subjecting her to a thorough and somewhat amused inspection. Even if they hadn’t introduced themselves as his sisters, she’d have had to be blind not to see their resemblance to her mentor.
“Don’t let my brother wear you out,” Lara, the first to pay a visit, counseled, her English almost as flawless as Domenico’s. “He’s a slave driver, especially at harvest time. Tell him when you’ve had enough.”
Not a chance! Arlene knew from the way Domenico periodically came to check on her that he was just waiting for her to throw in the towel—which she would have done, if her pride had permitted it. But despite a dull, persistent ache above her left eye which grew steadily worse as the morning passed, she refused to give him the satisfaction.
The sun was high when a van rolled to a stop on a dusty patch of rocky ground some distance away from the fields. At once, the sisters converged on it and started unloading its contents onto a long table set up under a canvas awning supported by a steel frame.
As everyone else working the fields downed tools, Domenico approached Arlene. “Time for a break and something to eat,” he declared, in that lordly take-it-or-leave-it manner of his.
By then, the pain in her head was so severe, starbursts of flashing light were exploding before her eyes and she wasn’t sure she could crawl to where the women were laying out baskets of bread and platters laden with cheese, thinly sliced smoked meat and olives. But either he was blessed with second sight, or the stabbing agony showed on her face because, just when she feared she’d pass out, he grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet. “Still want to run a vineyard?” he inquired smoothly.
“You bet,” she managed, and disengaging herself from his hold, managed to totter off and collapse in the shade of the awning.
Following, he eyed her critically. “How much water have you drunk since you got here?”
“Not enough, I guess.” She squinted against the painfully bright glare of the sun beyond the awning. “I did bring a bottle with me, but I finished it hours ago.”
“You didn’t notice the coolers at the end of each row of vines? You didn’t think to ask what they were for?”
“No.” She swallowed, the smell of warm yeasty bread, olives and sharp cheese suddenly causing her stomach to churn unpleasantly.
He let fly with an impatient curse and strode to the table, returning a moment later to thrust at her another bottle of water, this one well chilled. “It didn’t occur to me you’d need to be told to keep yourself properly hydrated. I assumed you had enough sense to reach that conclusion unaided.”
Another of his sisters, this one well into pregnancy, happened to overhear him. “Domenico, please! Can you not see the poor woman has had enough for one day?” she chided, hurrying forward with a plate of food. “Here, signorina. I’ve brought you something to eat.”
Arlene grimaced, by then so sick from the pounding in her head that she was afraid to open her mouth to reply, in case she threw up instead.
With a sympathetic murmur, his sister lowered herself carefully to her knees. “You are in distress, cara. What can I do to help you?”
She tried to shrug away the woman’s concern but, by then, even so small a movement was beyond her. “I have a bad headache here,” she mumbled, pressing her hand to her temple, and hating herself for her weakness almost as much as she hated Domenico for witnessing it.
“More than just a headache, I think,” his sister said, glancing up at him. “It is the emicrania, Domenico—the migraine. She needs to be looked after.”
“I can see that, Renata,” he snapped.
“Then drive her down to the house and let Momma take care of her.”
“No!” Horrified by the idea, Arlene managed to subdue another wave of nausea long enough to articulate her objection without embarrassing herself.
Renata took ice from a cooler and wrapped it in one of the linen cloths lining the bread baskets. “Do you have a rented car, cara?” she asked, placing it gently at the base of Arlene’s skull.
“Yes, but not here. My friend dropped me off this morning.”
“Just as well, because you’re in no shape to drive.” Once again, Domenico hoisted her to her feet, this time showing more care than he had before. “Avanti! Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“I’m taking you back to your hotel before you pass out. I don’t imagine your friend will appreciate having you flat on your back—at least, not in your present condition.”
If she hadn’t felt so lousy, she’d have challenged him on his last remark. Instead she submitted to being bundled into the Jeep, leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.
To his credit, he drove carefully down the rutted track from the vineyard so as not to add to her discomfort, but when they reached the paved road, he wasted no time covering the miles into town. Beyond a terse, “Which hotel?” he mercifully made no other attempt at conversation.
Once arrived, he ignored the hotel’s No Parking sign, stopped the vehicle right at the front door, and came around to help her alight. “What’s your room number?”
By that point almost blind with pain, she sagged against his supporting arm. “Four twenty-two.”
“You